Fiction by Robert Coover
Grandmother’s nose
She had only just begun to think about
the world around her. Until this summer,
she and the world had been much the
same thing, a sweet seamless blur of life
in life. But now it had broken away from
her and become, not herself, pero el
place her self resided in, a sometimes
strange and ominous other that must
for one’s own sake be studied, be read
like a book, like the books she’d begun
to read at the same time the world reced-
ed. Or maybe it was her reading that had
made the world step back. Things that
had once been alive and talked to her
because part of her–doll, casa, cloud,
well–were silent now, and apart, y
things that lived still on their own–
flower, butterfly, madre, grandmoth-
Robert Coover, miembro de la Academia Americana-
mi desde 2000, is T. B. Stowell University Profes-
sor at Brown University, where he teaches experi-
mental and digital writing. His ½rst novel, "El
Origin of the Brunists” (1966), won the Faulkner
Otorgar. He has written several other novels, en-
cluding “The Public Burning” (1977), “Spanking
the Maid” (1982), “Pinocchio in Venice” (1991),
and “The Adventures of Lucky Pierre” (2002), como
well as several collections of short ½ction and a
collection of plays. “Grandmother’s nose” is from
“A Child Again,” a short ½ction collection that
will be published later this year.
© 2005 by Robert Coover
er–she now knew also died, otro
kind of distance.
This dying saddened her, though she
understood it but dimly (it had little to
do with her, only with the inconstant
world she lived in), and it caused her to
feel sorry for these ill-fated things. Ella
used to think it was funny when her
mother chopped the head off a chicken
and it ran crazily around the garden;
now she didn’t. She no longer squashed
ants and beetles underfoot or pulled the
wings off flies and butterflies, and she
watched old things precious to her, como
her mother, with some anxiety, fright-
ened by the possibility of their sudden
ausencia. Since dying was a bad thing,
she associated it with being bad, y entonces
was good, at least as good as she could
ser: she wanted to keep her mother with
su. If her mother asked her to do some-
thing, she did it. Which was why she was
aquí.
She also associated dying with silence,
for that was what it seemed to come
a. So she chattered and sang the day
through to chase the silence away. A fu-
tile endeavor, she knew (she somehow
had this knowledge, perhaps it was
something her grandmother taught her
or showed her in a book), but she kept it
arriba, doing her small part to hold back the
end of things, cheerfully conversing with
any creature who would stop to talk with
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Fiction by
Roberto
Coover
su. This brought smiles to most faces
(she was their little heroine), though her
mother sometimes scolded her: Don’t
speak with strangers, she would say.
Well, the whole world was somewhat
strange to her, even her mother some-
veces; it was talk to it or let the fearful
stillness reign.
Though the world was less easy to live
in than before, it was more intriguing.
She looked at things more closely than
she had when looking at the world was
like looking in at herself, her eyes, entonces
liquid mirrors in a liquid world, ahora
more like windows, she poised behind
a ellos, staring out, big with purpose. A
be at one with things was once enough,
sameness then a comfort like a fragrant
kitchen or a warm bath. Now it was dif-
ference that gave her pleasure: feathers
(she had no feathers), petals, wrinkles,
shells, brook water’s murmuring trickle
over stones, not one alike, her mother’s
teeth (she hadn’t even seen them there
in her mouth before), the way a door is
hecho, and steps, and shoes. She thought
about words like dog, registro, and fog, y
how unalike these things were that
sounded so like cousins, and she peered
intensely at everything, seeking out the
mystery in the busyness of ants, el
odd veiny shape of leaves, the way ½re
burned, the skins of things.
And now it was her grandmother’s
nose. It was a hideous thing to see, pero
for that reason alone aroused her curios-
idad. It was much longer and darker than
she remembered, creased and hairy and
swollen with her illness. She knew she
ought not stare at it–poor Grandma!–
but fascination gripped her. Such a nose!
It was as if some creature had got inside
her grandmother’s face and was trying
to get out. She wished to touch the nose
to see if it were hot or cold (Grandma lay
so still! it was frightening); she touched
her own instead. Sí, dying, she thought
(though her own nose reassured her),
must be a horrid thing.
The rest of Grandma had been affect-
ed, también. Though she was mostly covered
up under nightcap, gown, and heaped-
up bedclothes as though perhaps to hide
the shame of her disease, it was clear
from what could be glimpsed that the
dark hairy swelling had spread to other
partes, and she longed–not without a lit-
tle shudder of dread–to see them, a
know better what dying was like. Pero
what could not be hidden was the nose:
a dark bristly outcropping poking out of
the downy bedding like the toe of a dirty
black boot from a cloud bank, o de
snow. Plain, as her grandmother liked to
decir, as the nose on your face. Only a soft
snort betrayed the life still in it. Grand-
ma also liked to say that the nose was in-
vented for old people to hang their spec-
tacles on (Grandma’s spectacles were on
the table beside her bed, perched on a
closed book), but the truth was, ojos
were probably invented to show the
nose where to go. The nose sat in the
very middle of one’s face for all to see,
no matter how old one was, and it led
the way, ½rst to go wherever the rest
went, pointing the direction. Cuando
she’d complained that she’d forgotten
the way to Grandma’s house, her mother
had said: Oh, just follow your nose. Y
she had done that and here she was.
Nose to nose with Grandma.
Her grandmother opened one rheumy
eye under the frill of her nightcap and
stared gloomily at her as though not
quite recognizing her. She backed away.
She really didn’t know what to do. Él
was very quiet. Perhaps she should sing
a song. I’ve brought you some biscuits
and butter, Grandma, she said at last,
her voice a timid whisper. Her grand-
mother closed her eye again and from
under her nose let loose a deep growly
burp. A nose was also for smelling
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Grand-
mother’s
nose
cosas. And Grandma did not smell
very nice. On the way I also picked
some herbs for tea. Shall I put some on?
Tea might do you good.
No, just set those things on the table,
little girl, her grandmother said without
opening her lidded eye, and come get
into bed with me. Her voice was hoarse
and raw. Maybe it was a bad cold she was
dying of.
I’d rather not, Grandma. She didn’t
want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings,
but she did not want to get close to her
cualquiera, not the way she looked and
smelled. She seemed to be scratching
herself under the bedding. It’s . . . no
time for bed.
Her grandmother opened her near eye
again and studied her a moment before
emitting a mournful grunt and closing it
de nuevo. All right then, she mumbled. Para-
get it. Do as you damned well please. Oh
dear, she’d hurt her feelings anyway. Su
grandmother burped sourly again and a
big red tongue flopped out below her
swollen nose and dangled like a dry rag
on a line, or her own cap hanging there.
I’m sorry, Grandma. It’s just that it
scares me the way you look now.
However I look, she groaned, it can’t
be half so bad as how I feel. Her grand-
mother gaped her mouth hugely and ran
her long dry tongue around the edges. Él
must have been–fooshh!–something I
comió.
She felt an urge to remark on her
grandmother’s big toothy mouth,
which was quite shocking to see when
it opened all the way (so unlike her
mother’s mouth), but thought better of
él. It would just make her grandmother
even sadder. She’d said too much al-
ready, and once she started to ask ques-
ciones, the list could get pretty long, no
even counting the parts she couldn’t see.
Her big ears, Por ejemplo, not quite hid-
den by the nightcap. She remembered a
story her grandmother told her about a
little boy who was born with donkey
ears. And all the rest was donkey, también. Él
was a sad story that ended happily when
the donkey boy got into bed with a prin-
impuesto. She began to regret not having
crawled into bed with her poor grand-
mother when she begged it of her. If she
asked again, she would do it. Hold her
breath and do it. Isn’t there some way I
can help, Grandma?
The only thing you’re good for, niño,
would just make things worse. Su
grandmother lapped at her nose with
her long tongue, making an ominous
scratchy sound. Woof. I’m really not
feeling well.
I’m sorry. . .
And so you should be. It’s your fault,
you know.
Oh! Was it something I brought you
that made you sick?
No, she snapped crossly, but you led
me to it.
Did I? I didn’t mean to.
Bah. Innocence. I eat up innocence.
Grandma gnashed her teeth and another
rumble rolled up from deep inside and
escaped her. When I’m able to eat any-
thing at all. . . foo. . . She opened her eye
and squinted it at her. What big eyes you
tener, young lady. What are you staring
en?
Your . . . your nose, Grandma.
What’s the matter with it? Her grand-
mother reached one hand out from
under the bedding to touch it. Her hand
was black and hairy like her nose and
her ½ngernails had curled to ugly claws.
Oh, it’s a very nice nose, pero. . . it’s so. . .
Are you dying, Grandma? she blurted
out at last.
There was a grumpy pause, ½lled on-
ly with a snort or two. Then her grand-
mother sighed morosely and grunted.
Looks like it. Worse luck. Not what I
had in mind at all. She turned her head
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Fiction by
Roberto
Coover
to scowl at her with both dark eyes, el
frill of the nightcap down over her thick
brows giving her a clownish cross-eyed
mirar. She had to smile, she couldn’t stop
herself. Hey, smartypants, what’s funny?
You’re going to die, también, you know,
you’re not getting out of this.
I suppose so. But not now.
Her grandmother glared at her for a
moment, quite ferociously, then turned
her head away and closed her eyes once
más. No, she said. Not now. And she
lapped scratchily at her nose again. En
a story she’d read in a book, había
a woman whose nose got turned into a
long blood sausage because of a bad
desear, and the way her grandmother
tongued her black nose made her think
de ello. Did her grandmother wish for
something she shouldn’t have?
I sort of know what dying is, Grand-
mamá. I had a bird with a broken wing
and it died and turned cold and didn’t
do anything after that. And living, Bueno,
that’s like every day. Mostly I like it. Pero
what’s the point if you just have to die
and not be and forget everything?
How should I know what the damned
point is, her grandmother growled. Ella
lay there in the heaped bedding, nose
alto, her red tongue dangling once more
below it. She didn’t move. It was very
quiet. Was she already dead? Or just
pensamiento? Appetite, her grandmother
said ½nally, breaking the silence. Y
the end of appetite. That’s it.
That was more like the Grandma she
knew. She had lots of stories about being
hungry or about eating too much or the
wrong things. Like the one about the lit-
tle girl whose father ate her brother. Él
liked the dish so much he sucked every
bone (now every time she ate a chicken
wing, she thought of that father). El
little girl gathered all the bones he threw
under the table and put them together
and her brother became a boy again.
Grandma often told stories about naugh-
ty boys and cruel fathers, but the little
boy in this story was nice and the father
was quite nice, también, even if he did some-
times eat children.
Her grandmother popped her eye open
suddenly and barked in her deep raspy
voz: Don’t look too closely! It scared
her and made her jump back. She’d been
leaning in, trying to see the color of the
skin under the black hairs. It was a color
something like that of old driftwood.
Look too closely at anything, her grand-
mother said, letting the dark lid fall over
her eye once more and tilting her nose
toward the ceiling, and what you’ll see
is nothing. And then you’ll see it every-
dónde, you won’t be able to see anything
else. She gaped her jaws and burped
grandly. Big mistake, she growled.
The thing about her grandmother’s
nose, so different from her own, o de
anyone’s she knew, she thought as she
put the kettle on for tea, was that it
seemed to say so much more to her than
her grandmother did. Her nose was big
and rough, but at the same time it looked
so naked and sad and kind of embarrass-
En g. She couldn’t ½gure out exactly what
she thought about it. Grandma’s talk
was blunt and plain and meant just
what it said, no more. The nose was
more mysterious and seemed to be say-
ing several things to her at once. Fue
like reading a story about putting a
brother back together with his licked
bones and discovering later it was really
about squashing bad ladies, one mean-
ing hidden under another one, like bugs
under a stone.
With a pestle she ground some of the
herbs she’d brought in a mortar, entonces
climbed up on a chair to get a cup down
from the cupboard. Her grandmother’s
nose was both funny and frightening at
al mismo tiempo, and hinted at worlds be-
yond her imagination. Worlds, maybe,
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she didn’t really want to live in. Si usted
die, Grandma, she said, crawling down
from the chair, I’ll save all your bones.
To chew on, I hope, her grandmother
snapped, sinking deeper into the bed-
ding. Which reminds me, she added,
somewhat more lugubriously. One thing
your grandmother said, as I now recall,
era: Don’t bite off more than you can
chew.
Sí. But you’re my grandmother.
That’s right. Well–wuurpp!–don’t
forget it. Now go away. Leave me alone.
Before I bite your head off just to shut
you up.
This dying was surely a hard thing
that her grandmother was going
a través de, one had to expect a little bad
temper. Even her grandmother’s nose
seemed grayer than it had been before,
her tongue more raglike in its lifeless
dangle, her stomach rumblings more
dangerously eruptive. It was like she
had some wild angry beast inside her. Él
made her shudder. Dying was de½nitely
not something to look forward to. El
kettle was boiling so she scraped the
mortar grindings into the cup and ½lled
it full of hot water, set the cup on the
table beside the bed. Aquí, Grandma.
This will make you feel better. Su
grandmother only snarled peevishly.
Más tarde, when she got home, her mother
asked her how Grandma was feeling.
Not very well, she said. A wolf had eat-
en her and got into bed in Grandma’s
nightclothes and he asked me to get in
bed with him. Did you do that? No, I
sort of wanted to. But then some men
came in and chopped the wolf’s head
off and cut his tummy open to get
Grandma out again. I didn’t stay but I
think Grandma was pretty upset. Su
mother smiled, showing her teeth, y
told her it was time for bed.
Was that what really happened? Puede-
ser, maybe not, she wasn’t sure. But it
Grand-
mother’s
nose
was a way of remembering it, even if it
was perhaps not the best way to remem-
ber poor Grandma (that nose!), aunque
Grandma was dying or was already dead,
so it didn’t really matter.
She crawled into her bed, a place not
so friendly as once it was, but ½rst she
touched her bedstead, the book beside it
(Grandma had given it to her), her pil-
bajo, doll, felt the floorboards under her
pies, convincing herself of the reality of
all that, because some things today had
caused her doubt. No sooner had her
feet left the floor, sin embargo, than there
was nothing left of that sensation except
her memory of it, y eso, she knew,
would soon be gone, and the memory of
her grandmother, también, and some day the
memory of her, and she knew then that
her grandmother’s warning about the
way she looked at things had come too
late.
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